


Tomes and Wands

by Cumbersome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Original Character(s), Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: An AU set in 1972 during the beginning of the First Wizarding War.





	1. Black Manor

1972

 

The air tastes of mist and moonlight. 

Hidden in the shadow of a tree, Hermione watches the mist move, breathes it into her lungs, it’s taste that of wet rocks, of water logged moss. She waits. Listening. 

Next to her, James Ashford mops his brow with a kerchief, his face damp and pale. He turns his head to speak, but the words die in his mouth at the withering look Hermione shoots his way. Lips thinning together, he slumps into himself. 

Something changes in the air and Hermione straightens. She palms her wand, knuckles whitening as she strains to listen. Alerted, Ashford retrieves his own wand from his sleeve. He points it at the clearing, waiting.

She smells it. Dark Magic. Thick traces of it, smelling of fire and the cold of ancient tombs.

Footsteps. A figure steps into the clearing, mist swirling around a deep hood hiding the face. There is a pause and the hooded figure turns, as if scenting the air. Pale hands raise, drawing the hood back, revealing a thin, sharp face.

“Come out, come out,” he whispers, teeth bared.

Hermione steps into view, wand held at the ready. Ashford doesn’t move, doesn’t dare twitch.

“Hullo,” Hermione says. 

“Well, well.” He says. He gives her a once over. “They send me a child. How quaint.” 

“While I adore a good conversation, I must press you to get to the point. You requested a word. And here I am.”

He sneers and spreads his hands, giving a mock bow. “Of course, M’lady. Apologies. How’s this; tonight, Black Manor. A real meeting of minds, if you follow me. Fresh faces for your watch list.”

Hermione smiles, humorless and thin lipped. “And how would one attend such a soire?” 

“Feris Clogg attends. I believe your lot have been trying to put a snare on him for some time. More than reasonable cause to make an unannounced visit, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione nods. “And what is it you want, then?” 

“Nothing for now, dearie. Rest assured I’ll be in touch.” 

He smiles, a nasty curling of his lips and there is a crack as he Disapparates. 

“Bloody hell,” Ashford says, rushing into view. “What a ghoul.”

“I’m Apparating to Black Manor. I’ll wait at the gates. Bring the others.”

Ashford nods and starts to speak, stops as he is cut off by another crack as Hermione disappears. A sour look on his face, he stowes his wand twists on his heel, focusing his mind’s eye on a singular location; the Ministry of Magic, Auror Office.

 

“Granger.” Caldwell says, appearing out of thin air. Behind him, more figures Apparate with audible pops.

Caldwell is a Senior Auror, grim and grey faced, his waistcoat pressed and without a wrinkle, but his boots scuffed and worn. He wears a bowler hat atop his head. His wand is at the ready.

Hermione dips her chin in acknowledgement. “Sir.”

“Who was the informant?” Caldwell asks, turning to gaze up at the imposing iron gates of Black Manor.

“No idea,” Hermione says. “But I expect we’ll be hearing from him again.”

Caldwell gives a clipped nod. He stride forward to the gates, gives them a tap with the tip of his wand. There is a moment of silence, the group of Aurors looking at each other, and then a faint pop and a house elf materializes. The shabby creature gives a deep bow before Caldwell, blinking it’s luminous eyes. 

“Sir! How may Blinky serve?” 

Caldwell snaps his fingers and a scroll appears in his hand. He opens it with a flourish, presenting it to the house elf. “This is an Order of Entry, signed by Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins. Open the gates, elf.”

The elf peers suspiciously at the scroll, turning it this way and that, settling it upside down. “Blinky can’t read, Master. Hows is Blinky to be sure this is real?”

Caldwell’s smile holds no humour. “Take my word for it.”

Blinky looks up at Caldwell, a shrewd, wary expression tight across his face. He finally gives a nod and gestures to the gates. They swing open with barely a whisper. Blinky bowes again and disappears. 

“Quickly,” Caldwell says, already striding forward. “Before that blasted elf warns the whole Manor.”

The Aurors rush ahead, the sounds of their running feet echoing. Hermione stays at Caldwell’s side, matching his quick pace. 

“What are we meant to do?” she inquires.

“Only make our presence known. And take Clogg along with us, naturally. Bit too obvious with the Muggle smashing. We can take him and make it stick. He’ll be in Azkaban before lunch.”

Hermione nods, keeping her thoughts to herself. 

The grand oak doors hang open. They step into the entry hall. Hermione looks up into the brightness of the floating candles and follows behind Caldwell as they make their way towards the sounds of an upset, loud voices, the quick movement of feet over marble. 

They step into a well lit ballroom. The crowd parts for them, faces turning to regard them. Hermione looks back.

Masks. Everyone is masked.

The Aurors have packed into the middle of the floor, wands out, scanning the crowd. One turns as Hermione and Caldwell approach. He is young, a thin blonde mustache on his upper lip. Dutton, Hermione recalls. He was in the same training program as her, finished 5th in the class. Painfully sincere and eyes like a doe. 

“Sir,” Dutton says. “We can’t spot him.” 

Caldwell hums and flicks his wand. “Accio!” 

There is a cry and a shuffle of bodies and a figure comes zooming through the crowd of onlookers. The man dangles above the ground, only the tips of his well polished shoes brushing the floor. He comes to an abrupt halt before Caldwell. Caldwell reaches up and removes the man’s mask. He nods. “Hullo, Clogg.”

“How dare you put your filthy hands on me,” Clogg cries out, thick face a deep scarlet. 

“What is the meaning of this?” another voice comes, deep and commanding attention. 

Caldwell turns. His smile is unpleasant. “Ah, Cygnus. There you are.”

A pair stand before them, a man and women, both dark haired and rigid. In one motion, they remove their masks. Caldwell inclines his chin to the woman. “Lady Black.”

Cygnus Black bares his teeth.”You dare.”

“No harm meant,” Caldwell says, tone pleasant. “Mr. Clogg here is long sought after. We simply could not ignore his presence here. We’ll take him and you can get back to, well, all this.”

“The Minister will hear of this,” Druella hisses.

“Naturally, Madame. Though I feel that the Order of Entry signed by her hand should indicate her awareness. I took the liberty of presenting it to you elf at the front gates.”

Cygnus Black’s hands curl into fists. 

“Gentleman,” Caldwell indicates Clogg with a wave of his hand. “Kindly escort Mr. Clogg to the Office.”

The Aurors disappear along with Clogg with a crack like thunder. Hermione remains behind with Caldwell, watching curiously as Cygnus Black seethes, and his wife levels a cold stare back at the them. 

Caldwell hasn’t stopped smiling.

“Not here,” Cygnus says. He spins on his heel, robes whirling, his wife close at his back. With a shared glance, Caldwell and Hermione follow. 

They are lead into a library. Hermione gives the packed shelves an admiring glance before settling her gaze on the Blacks. 

Before the door closes, a trio of figures enter. They are unmasked. Hermione’s stomach tightens.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Rodolphus Lestrange. Narcissa Black.

A look passes between them and Hermione, recognition, and a certain loathing. Uncharacteristically tactful, they remain silent and seat themselves. Bellatrix in particular eyes Hermione, smirking as she crosses her legs and lounges back. 

“Well,” Cygnus says. He pours himself a drink. “What is it this time?”

Caldwell clasps his hands behind his back. Still smiling. “A Manor full of Death, this is what I see.”

From her chair, Bellatrix laughs, her dark eyes aglow with dangerous humour. “Come by to chat, then?” she says. “Or perhaps you’ve come by to turn in the Mudblood at your side. Hand her over to the Cause. I’m sure we can find something to do with her. I’ve a wolf or two that would just love to chew her bones.”

Hermione says nothing, but she meets Bellatrix’s gaze, allowing her own distaste to show.

Bellatrix sticks out her tongue. Hermione quirks an eyebrow. 

“I’ll have your job,” Cygnus says, as if hearing nothing. “I’ll have your entire bloody department.” 

“Untrue,” Caldwell says. “Your leanings are common knowledge. We’ll dog you every step of the way. When we down Voldemort, you’ll be on the same boat to Azkaban.”

Cygnus sips from the glass in his hand, his eyes on fire. “Hollow words,” he said.

“We shall see,” Caldwell says. “A good night to all.” 

He touches the brim of his bowler in farwell and turns to leave. Just as he does, Bellatrix leaps to her feet, moving with surprising swiftness until she stands toe to toe with Hermione.

Hermione meets her burning gaze, willing her hand away from her wand. Hands behind her back, Bellatrix leans close, sniffing. She gives a cocky, lazy grin and shows her teeth. “Just the same, Granger. Don’t think I’ve forgotten you. I always thought we would meet again, you and I. I look forward to soaking the ground in your filthy blood.”

Hermione smiles. “I’ll tell Andy you say hullo.”

Bellatrix looks as though she’s been slapped. Her hand goes to her wand. Touches it. Moves away. “Be seeing you, Granger. Soon.”

With a malevolent glare, Bellatrix withdraws. 

Caldwell gestures and the library doors swing open. “Friends of yours?” he murmurs.

“I was in the same year as her sister, Andromeda,” Hermione replies. “We never got on, Bellatrix and I.”

She feels eyes lasering into the back of her neck and glances of her shoulder. Her gaze meets sharp blue eyes. She startles at their intensity, the slight curiosity. Caught out, Narcissa Black cools her stare, her face suddenly closed. 

‘Strange,’ Hermione thinks. She dismisses the thought as the doors close behind her. 

 

1964

 

The Hogwarts library is silent save for the faint rustle of pages turning, the occasional scraping of a tooth over a quill. Immersed deep in an essay dealing with the practical uses of the woolygag plant, Hermione doesn’t notice the Slytherin slipping up at her back.

“Granger!” comes a loud voice.

Hermione startles, her elbow knocking over an unstoppered inkwell, spilling green ink all over her robes. She gasps, turning, a frown carved into her face. 

“Sorry, Hermione,” Andromeda Black says, flicking her wand to vanish the ink from the other’s robes. 

“Ladies, really,” comes the disapproving voice of the librarian, Madame Gribbles. 

Hermione ducks her head and Andromeda stiffles a laugh in her palm. She drops into a chair, her eyes alight with mirth. “Not mad are you?” she whispers.

Hermione fights back a smile. “I’d like to be. I was enjoying that essay.”

Andromeda groans. “‘Course you were. Listen, it’s a lovely day. Why don’t you put the tomes to the side and take a walk with me?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione says, eyeing the pile of books at her elbow. “I’ve only just begun next week’s work, I really should stay focused.”

“Next week’s….Oh, no.” Andromeda jumps up, her hand catching Hermione’s and pulling her along. “Off we go, my overachieving Gryffindor friend.” 

Hermione starts to protest but leaves off. She finds herself caught in Andromeda’s mania, a strange light heartedness making her feel oddly unburdened. She laughs, tightening her fingers around Andromeda’s. 

They round a corner and come to an abrupt stop, both girls stiffening. 

Leaning against a pillar, surrounded by a trio of her fellow 3rd year Slytherins is Bellatrix. She straightens as she sees her sister, her eyes darting to the hand clasped around Hermione’s. Hermione expects Andromeda to let go, to drop her hand like fire. Instead, her hold tightens and she steps slightly in front of her, her face going stubborn and defiant. 

“What’s this?” Bellatrix says, her voice soft and dangerous. She pushes off the pillar and strides forward, reaching up to loosen her tie. She smirks. “Got a puppy, have you? A muddy little bitch?”

“Bellatrix, don’t,” Andromeda says, glaring. “She’s done nothing to you.”

“She offends me,” Bellatrix says. She glances over her shoulder at her cronies, making sure they’re watching. Her lips purse. “Mother and Father wouldn’t like it. Consorting with their kind. Sickens me. How can you stand to touch it?”

“We’re leaving,” Andromeda says. “Leave us alone. Or I swear I’ll hex your arse off.”

“Ooooooh, I’m shaking,” Bellatrix taunts. But she steps to the side. “Go on then.” 

They move to walk past and Bellatrix’s hand darts out, catching hold of Hermione’s wrist, clamping down. She leans down into her face, sneering. Chest cold, Hermione stares back up at her, willing herself to hold still, not to shake.

“Brave little thing,” Bellatrix murmurs, delighted. She snickers suddenly, twisting Hermione’s wrist sharply. Hermione bites her tongue, stifling a cry of pain. Watching her face closely, Bellatrix laughs.

“Defiance only makes it more fun to break you,” Bellatrix says. She winks and lets go, stepping back with her hands up. “Be seeing you,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Andromeda says when they are away, sitting in the sunshine beside the Great Lake. Her face is pale, her expression strained. “It’s not really her fault. It’s what we’re taught and she’s well, she impressionable.”

Hermione doesn’t say it’s alright, because it’s not. Instead she lays a hand on her friend’s shoulder, gives her a small smile. “I’m glad you’re not. Impressionable.”

Andromeda smiles, real and sincere and genuine. 

They watch as one large, black tentacle lazily waves from the water.


	2. Assignment

1972

 

Rain. Cold, slapping her bare arms with force. She tips her head back, presenting her face to the sky, to the moon flickering behind storm clouds. Her eyes close and she breathes deeply, holds the air in her lungs.

“Bella?” 

She turns, finds Narcissa standing in the doorway to her bedroom, eyeing her with an air of uncertainty. She smiles, stepping in from the balcony, shutting the doors with a flick of her fingers. 

“Yes, sister mine?”

Narcissa takes a step into the room, looks down at her hands, picking at the corner of a nail. “I thought you had left.”

“And not say goodbye? Never. You’ll be on the train to Hogwarts tomorrow and I shall remain behind, the lingering ghost.”

“Don’t say that,” Narcissa says, her gaze sharp, a steeliness inherited from their mother.

“Dull days are ahead, sister. But the nights, the nights are alive.”

“What kind of sense is that?”

“Only the reasonable sort.”

Narcissa glances into the hallway, shuts the door. She flicks her wand, casting a Silencing Spell. “I’m worried.”

Bellatrix turns, facing the fire. She extends a hand to the flames, watching the light make shadows in the contours of her hand. “Oh?” she says.

“I...you’re different, Bella. Look at yourself. And your behaviour - “ 

“What of it?”

“Perhaps you should spend time away from Rodolphus. From...the Dark Lord. From your precious Cause.”

“Ever thick,” Bellatrix says, the firelight casting her eyes in a dangerous glow. “Can’t you see that I am more? I am becoming more powerful. A time will come when I will be free. Free to exist. Free to challenge and shape my future as I see fit. Not this bowing and scraping and humility. It is not they who are great, but I.”

Narcissa laughs suddenly, a bitter sound. “What, you will change the world?”

“No, sister. I will bend it to my will. Or watch it break.”

“And the Dark Lord? What of him?”

Bellatrix scoffs. “A fool, motivated by ego, using our prejudices against us. I heard a whisper once that he’s a half blood.”

Narcissa inhales sharply. “What then?”

“He is destined to fall. In the meantime, I shall learn at his knee, do his bidding.”

“At what cost? Your sanity, your soul?”

Bellatrix spins then, fisting the front of Narcissa’s robes, pulling her close, her anger clear. “What of you? They’re marrying you off like cattle. Sending you to a man who will bind you and own you and use you. And you accept it.”

“As did you.”

“No.” She had fought, battled with tooth and wand to reject the union. 

“Yes. Because you had no choice.” Narcissa reads her sister’s eyes, remembering well the rages, the fights, the night Bella had fled only to be brought back, bloody and blank faced, her skin still hot from the Cruciatus. “It is the way of the world.”

“Until it’s not,” Bellatrix says, shoving her away. 

“Are you so prideful to think you can change it?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I would see this world burn before I would see it go on like this.” 

Narcissa shakes her head. “Find yourself, Bella. Before it’s too late and you are lost.”

Bellatrix smiles and there is murder in her eyes. “On the contrary, Cissa. I know just where the path leads.” 

Narcissa leaves her then, leaves her alone with a dying fire. 

 

“Bartleby’s Love Potions!” The advertisement screams overhead. Hermione looks up, noting a small golden bottle with wings and a too large pair of lips. “Make the LOVE CONNECTION. So powerful, but one dab is needed and he is yours FOREVER.” 

Sighing, Hermione turns back to the paper vendor, passing the appropriate money and catching up a copy of the Daily Prophet. She shakes it open, frowning at the title. 

MINISTRY INEPT? it reads. Below is a picture of Caldwell, camera flashes bouncing off the lenses of his spectacles. His face is grim, expression slightly harried. The article details the visit to Black Manor, explicitly quoting one Cygnus Black III himself, expressing his indignation at the mistreatment of his person and his guests. Another photo, Cygnus Black folding his hands behind his back, face stern, brow furrowed. 

Snorting, Hermione folds the paper and tucks it under her arm. She crosses the cobblestones at a brisk pace, pausing at a cafe. The bell over the door jingles as she enters. She glances around, spotting a familiar face at a window seat.

“Morning,” she says. She sets down the paper, shrugs out of her cloak, slides into the booth.

Caldwell’s mustache twitches as he looks down at the Daily Prophet, his own image frowning up at him. Hermione clears her throat and flips the paper over. A Quidditch player waves up at them, giving a saucy wink and a toss of hair. 

“Cup for you,” Caldwell says, sliding her a steaming cup of tea.

She smiles, warming her fingers against the porcelain. “Thank you.”

Caldwell hums, sips his own drink. “I’ve an assignment for you.”

Hermione’s eyebrows raise. Just two years out of Hogwarts and less than a year out of Auror training, she is still working to make a name for herself. Strictly observation unless ordered otherwise, so was the word from Caldwell. 

“Assignment?” she says, allowing her eagerness to show.

“Yes, yes. Can’t hold your hand forever, can I?”

“I hope not, sir.”

He sniffs. “Indeed.” He pauses, taking another sip of his tea. He swallows and gives a loud sigh. “You’re aware of Hogwarts’ difficulty maintaining a steady Defense Against Dark Arts professor?”

“Of course. But term started barely a week ago, surely they have one for the year?”

“Oh, they did have.”

“Did, sir?”

“She’s dead.” 

Her brows raise higher still. “How?”

“That’s where you come in, Granger. I need you to find the how, the why, and the who. You’re to take Dutton with you.”

The two youngest, most inexperienced Aurors. The fact doesn’t escape her. She says nothing of it. She is accustomed to being underestimated. She is also accustomed to exceeding expectations. 

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re to stay there until you have answers. The Professor was a distant relative of the Minister’s. You see the importance, I presume.”

“I do.”

He nods, look back at his tea, a clear dismissal. Hermione stands, gathering her cloak. Caldwell glances up briefly, clears his throat.

“Might I have the paper? Mine, er, caught on fire.”

She doesn’t laugh. Though she wants to. “Of course, sir.”

“Thank you.” 

Turning away, she hears the rustle of paper. Caldwell grunts and adjusts his glasses. His lips purse.

“How unflattering.”

 

Nothing has changed. 

Dutton shifts, straightening his robes, running a hand down the creases of his pants. “Never been a fan of Apparating,” he says. “Always feel as if I’m going to leave pieces behind. Valuable bits, not just the odd ear or finger. Some critical. An eye, say. Perhaps a lung.”

Hermione smirks. “And I’ve never been fond of brooms.”

“Perhaps we’ll draw straws next time? Tallest gets to choose.”

“You can travel however you like on the return. I however, am willing to risk a lung.” 

They walk up to the gates, both looking up at familiar winged boars. 

“Is it the heights?” Dutton asks.

“It’s the thought of an enchanted cleaning implement standing as the only barrier between myself and grievous bodily harm.”

“Never thought of it like that. But then, you’re Muggle born, aren’t you?”

She shoots him a look and his eyes widen, his hands quickly coming up in a defensive gesture. 

“I only meant, well, you know….” he trails off, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. 

Giving a wry smile, Hermione folds her arms. “I see your point.”

Dutton exhales loudly. “Thank fuck.”

“Oi, there ye are!” comes a gruff voice. 

The gates swing open and the pair turn to see the gameskeeper beaming down at them. “Welcome! Got here quicker than I expected.”

Hermione recognizes the man, but can’t place a name to him. “We consider this a priority, hence our haste. There’s one more expected, our coroner. She should be along shortly. I’m Hermione Granger, and this is William Dutton.”

The gameskeeper takes her hand with care, gives it a squeeze. “Rubeus Hagrid. Hogwarts students weren’t ye?”

Hermione nods.

Hagrid puffs with pride. “I never forget a face. Ye were a Gryffindor, right, Miss Granger? And ye Mr. Dutton, I remember a Ravenclaw tie on ye.”

“Go ‘Claws,” Dutton says, if too enthusiastically.

“Aye, a grand House,” Hagrid agrees. “Though, meself, I’ve always cheered hardest for Gryffindor. But, off we go. The Headmaster will be wanting a word with ye before ye start.”

Dumbledore meets them at the entrance. He stands solitary, hands clasped under his long beard, watching them approach with his usual open gaze. His smile is genuine as they near and he bows. 

“A pleasure to see you both again,” he says, shaking their hands in turn. “Though I regret the circumstances.”

Hagrid bids his farwells. 

“What can you tell me, Professor?” Hermione queries, falling into step with the wizard’s long strides. 

“Ah, I could tell you prophecies, fallacies, the intricacies of the flight patterns of the Bundleleg bird. But, I suspect, you are interested in more grim subjects, yes?” 

His eyes dance. “Very well. The body is in the dungeons, in the potions lab.” 

 

“Our victim is one Madame Adora Kerfoot,” Dutton says, reading from a scroll suspended in the air. He pulls on a pair of black leather gloves. “Age 34, 65 inches in height and 58 kilos.”

“No outward signs of trauma,” says the coroner, Molly Peck. Her long nose is barely a breath from the dead face of Madame Kerfoot, eyes scanning rapidly. “That could change as we progress. Help me with the clothes, would you, Granger?”

Hermione obliges. Dutton swallows visibly, his lips turning down. Peck glances at him. Her mouth twists in a ghoulish grin. “First body?”

He nods.

“Not the first naked woman though, I hope?” 

His head moves to nod again before he starts, shooting a glare at the woman. She chuckles, folding Kerfoot’s robes, tucking them into waiting paper bags. 

Hermione steps back. “Back on track, all. Go on, Peck. Have a look.” 

“Yes, Your Holiness.” Pushing back the sleeves of her robes, Peck retrieves her wand, holds it over Kerfoot’s corpse. She murmurs and a blue glow emants from her wand tip. She begins to move it along the body, once again leaning down until her nose is almost touching the dead woman, her eyebrows pointed down into a V. She pauses over the stomach, humming to herself. She continues, halts once again at the head, examining the left temple in particular. With a sigh and a whisper, she releases the spell. She straightens. 

“Well, Your Nibs,” she says to Hermione, stowing her wand. “Imperius curse. Followed by a nibble of nightshade. Not enough to kill, mind, but certainly enough to cause one helluva bad trip, as muggles are wont to say.”

“What killed her, then?” Dutton says.

“Heart attack.”

“Balls.” Dutton replies.

“While ugly to behold, I doubt testicles were the cause.” 

Dutton frowns. He shoots Hermione a What? look. She shrugs in return.

“This woman saw something that terrified her. Whether triggered by hallucinations or something in reality, I can’t speculate.” 

“We’ve an Unforgivable on our hands,” Hermione says to Dutton. “Have to scan wands.”

“Whoever caused this, they could have used someone else’s wand. Or have a spare.” 

“Both true. But we’ll do the scanning, and we’ll have a good look at their faces while we do it. We’re bound to find something. Whether it’s an illicit spell or a guilty conscious.” 

“And while you two show off your super cool Auror skills,” Peck says, “I’ll be having a look at these clothes. Let you know if I find anything.”

“What do you think of Peck?” Dutton asks Hermione as they leave the coroner behind in potions lab. 

Hermione cuts him a look, her lips quirking in a mischievous smile. 

“Definitely a lesbian,” Dutton says.

“Don’t be insecure,” Hermione says. 

“It’s only because she intimidates me.”

“How do you feel about your Mother?”

Dutton considers. “You know, funny you should say. My wife looks just like my old Mam. Do you think that means something?”

Hermione laughs.

“Granger.”

Hermione turns. Her expression darkens as she sees familiar blonde hair, glacial eyes. With a tight lipped smile, she nods. “Narcissa.” 

Dutton’s eyes narrow. He steps forward. Narcissa levels a stare at him, unimpressed. 

“Give us a moment?” Hermione asks.

Dutton sniffs, gives a nod. “Meet you in the Great Hall. I have missed the food here.”

Hermione manages a wane smile. She turns to Narcissa as Dutton disappears around the corner. The younger woman eyes her with appraisal, her gaze quizzical. 

“Why are you here?” Narcissa asks. 

“You can guess.” 

“Ah. That then. The dead professor.”

“Know anything about it?”

Narcissa smiles, polite edging on condescension. “As if I would tell you.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione steps closer. She glances at the books in Narcissa’s arms. “Advanced classes? Impressive.”

Narcissa inclines her head.

“If a bit useless. Considering. Set to marry Malfoy, I hear.”

Narcissa’s expression cools. Her arms tighten around the books. She says nothing.

Hermione sighs, passing a hand through her hair. She looks away. “There’s no point in it now, the old rivalries. I shouldn’t mock you.” 

Narcissa’s smile holds no mirth. “And yet, you still judge me.”

“It’s not judgement. It’s disappointment. Disappointment that you can’t see you have a choice.”

“And we know where choice leads. Burned off the family tree. Disinherited. Spurned. How is Andy these days?” 

“Happy.” Hermione says, meeting Narcissa’s gaze, holding her eyes. 

Narcissa is the first to look away. Hermione shrugs. “I’m not here to argue ideologies with you.”

Unthinking, Narcissa reaches out, touches her forearm. Hermione looks at her, eyes narrowing. Narcissa’s mouth goes dry, but she doesn’t pull away. 

“I miss her.”

Hermione’s gaze softens. “So tell her.”

Narcissa opens her mouth, but can’t find the words. She withdraws her hand instead, putting distance between herself and Hermione. She looks down, chewing her lip.

“I’m at the Hog’s Head Inn. You can find me there if you have a need.”

Narcissa watches her walk away, wondering at the tightness in her stomach.


End file.
